Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
I remember thinking how easy it is to speak in clichés, to steal a line from pulp fiction and let it fall. We can only hover around the inexpressible with our words anyway, and there is comfort in saying what we have heard before.
Words are not as satisfactory as we should like them to be, but, like our neighbours, we have got to live with them and must make the best and not the worst of them.
I dreamt that I could paint you with words, but there were no colors bright enough, black or white enough, blue or green enough...they didn't mean enough
How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean.
The names for things don't come first. Words stagger after, hopelessly trying to become the sensation.
I wish I could say everything in one word. I hate all the things that can happen between the beginning of a sentence and the end.
All our words are but crumbs that fall down from the feast of the mind.
There should be so much more, not of orange, of words, of how terrible orange is and life.
